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T was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done,
Was sitting in the sun ;
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round Which he beside the rivulet
In playing there had found; He came to ask what he had found That was so large and smooth and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the boy
Who stood expectant by ;
And with a natural sigh “'T is some poor fellow's skull,' said he, "Who fell in the great victory.'
'I find them in the garden,
For there 's many here about; And often when I go to plough
The ploughshare turns them out. For many thousand men,' said he, "Were slain in that great victory.'
"Now tell us what 't was all about,'
Young Peterkin he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes ; Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for.'
'It was the English,' Kaspar cried,
'Who put the French to rout; But what they fought each other for
I could not well make out. But every body said,' quoth he, “That 't was a famous victory.
My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by ;
And he was forced to fly :
With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide,
And new-born baby died :
‘They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won ;
Lay rotting in the sun :
'Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won
And our good Prince Eugene ;'
“Why 't was a very wicked thing !'
Said little Wilhelmine;
‘And every body praised the Duke
Who this great fight did win.'
Quoth little Peterkin :-
PRO PATRIA MORI
CHEN he who adores thee has left but the name
Of his fault and his sorrows behind, 0! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
Of a life that for thee was resign'd !
Thy tears shall efface their decree;
I have been but too faithful to thee.
With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
Every thought of my reason was thine :
Thy name shall be mingled with mine!
The days of thy glory to see ;
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT
corpse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O’er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning ;
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
And we far away on the billow !
Lightly they 'll talk of the spirit that's gone
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,
But half of our heavy task was done
When the clock struck the hour for retiring : And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone But we left him alone with his glory.
SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN
N the sweet shire of Cardigan,
An old man dwells, a little man,
No man like him the horn could sound,
He all the country could outrun,